The real Man's bestfriend online
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Editor: Coco Collantes | Supposedly Under: entertainment | Email this
You see, as badly as I wanted to be there, it seemed that the universe conspired against and totally douched out on me over the weekend, rendering me incapable of attending the festivities at the Bela Bar last Saturday.
For one thing, yours truly contracted a debilitating monster mouth sore last week.
You know, the kind of mouth sore that already counts as significant physical trauma, giving the affected person the chills, and requiring said person to wear a shirt over another shirt, the latter of which is already of the long-sleeved variant, on a simple albeit slightly rainy Saturday afternoon.
The kind that would disrupt one’s ability to eat, make fart noises with one’s mouth, let alone speak.
The kind that would make one wince in pain if the distressed area comes in contact with just about anything, from catsup to toothpaste to (I’ll say it since you’re probably thinking it anyway) cock.
Editor: Mike Villar | Supposedly Under: entertainment | Email this
The evening of The Banana Gangbang Rock festival found me, my incredibly high blood pressure, and nine other people crammed inside an SUV negotiating rush hour traffic along EDSA.
Last week was, arguably, the most stressful week I’ve ever had in my life and Saturday, capping it off, was nothing short of a disaster: I was tired, hungover like a bitch and was probably on the verge of suffering a mild stroke.
As I painstakingly traversed EDSA to get to Greenhills, it became apparent to me that If I am to get through the next couple of weeks with stress from work, home and a bunch of other sources buttfucking me from all sides, I would probably need to start doing Shabu or some other amphetamine derivative to give me energy boosts because, seriously, this shit is just impossible.
Editor: Pau | Supposedly Under: entertainment | Email this
So I know this guy. Let’s call him, um, Schmau. So Schmau was enjoying a concert of sorts which was called the, erm, Schmanana Schmangbang Schmock Schmestival. As the night progressed, it eventually became more and more apparent to him that his bladder was quite inadequate to accommodate the amount of liquor he has been ingesting since he arrived.
Schmau, being the slave to his bodily functions that he is, did what any self respecting person would do; he dutifully headed straight to the bathroom to drain the lizard.
Upon entering the the bathroom, Pau Schmau saw to his dismay that the urinal was placed at a much higher level than what he was accustomed to. Rather than spend time contemplating the injustice done to people who happen to be short in stature, but big in heart (and crotch); Schmau decided to quit dicking around, and plow ahead, so he could get to the point. (Yeah, I did something there. See if you can see it.)
As he started to unbutton his fly, Schmau discovered that while he still had full control over his hands, seven of his fingers appear to have decided to turn themselves into pudding at this point. Schmau would have shaken his fists at the bottles of beer he had, but that would entail full control over all his digits.
